


Prince In Another Castle

by karuvapatta



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prince Damianos & Slave Laurent, Auguste Lives, Consent Issues, First Time, M/M, POV Laurent, Past Child Abuse, Slavery, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Laurent had dreamt of this, embarrassingly enough. But his fantasies did not include a slave’s collar or the threat of an oncoming war.(AKA Laurent is enslaved and gifted to his long-time crush.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thorvaenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorvaenn/gifts).



> Well damn, you're out of luck, I'm writing for you again :D You requested a Reverse AU with slave Laurent, which is always fun! I also may have based it a little on Damen's own AUs :)))))))
> 
> A/N: All on-screen sex in this fic is consensual.
> 
> Happy New Year, Diana! ♥

They led him into this chamber and, not ungently, forced him down onto his knees. His heart hammered in his chest, his muscles tightly coiled, anticipating a fight. But the fight was over. He was here, defeated, humiliated. Prostrating himself on the floor was just something he had to bear.

From beneath the curtain of his hair (washed and scented and let loose) he took in his surroundings. The fort at Marlas had been vandalized, all the ornaments stripped from the walls. They were now bare, glaringly so. There was nothing decorative, nothing superfluous. Nothing human.

He recalled the villages they had passed on the way here. At the very least, the Akielons seemed to be treating the people fairly well. But then again, even barbarians needed grain to eat.

Two guards, with enough bare flesh on display to make him avert his gaze, were stationed at the either side of the door. An open window was letting in fresh air and sunlight. He was made to kneel right in the middle of the room, bathed in it, and already he was getting uncomfortably hot. Summer never sat right by him. He preferred to hide away in the library. Perhaps this was some form of heat torture? But, no. He had been treated to a long bath, given nice food and decent clothes, even if they were too breezy for his tastes. No point in wasting all these resources on a prisoner they intended to torture.

Which left the question: what did they intend to do to him? And who exactly had him captured? None of the scenarios he came up with lessened the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

The guards suddenly snapped to full attention. By the sound of it, more than one person was heading towards this room. Just in case, and because this was expected of him, he dropped his gaze and improved his position as best as he could, trying to mimic what had been shown to him earlier in the baths.

The question of “who” was swiftly answered when every man save for the guards dropped to their knees. As to “what” – he did not even want to guess.

Damianos, the Crown Prince of Akielos, entered the room. He was accompanied by his own guards and another tall Akielon commander – Nikandros, the Akielon-appointed ruler of Delfeur.

From the vantage point so near the floor, the only discerning elements of their appearance were sandaled feet and muscular calves. Damianos, presumably, wore a long sweeping cloak of blood-red fabric, to signify his status even from afar. The other one spoke – “Makedon”, presumably, or maybe it meant “tall”? And the next word was a verb, perhaps it was “capture”, or “hold”, or “grip”, and then a few locations in the Alier province which sounded awfully strange when pronounced in Akielon, and then the word “gift”, and then a few more mystery words.

With the benefit of hindsight, it would have served him well to pay more attention when studying Akielon.

Damianos’s sandals moved further into his line of sight. And then he said: “Raise your head.”

He obeyed. Slowly, his muscles tight with trepidation, he obeyed. There simply was no better option.

He had plenty of time to take in Damianos, looming over him. He was dressed in Akielon military fashion, which considered of little more than a breastplate, wrist gauntlets, and a leather skirt. Red cape was pinned to his shoulder with a gold lion pin, gleaming in the sunlight. The armour hardly deserved that name, simplistic as it was, really almost crude – and yet. Yet. It emphasized every muscle on Damianos’s powerful body, his skin bared in a display of brazen arrogance. But he was undefeated in the field. Even now, he had a sword strapped to his belt.

Their eyes locked. Presumably it was a breach of etiquette to do so, but that hardly seemed important. Because the game was about to come to an end: they had met before. Whatever protection anonymity offered, now was the time to kiss it good bye.

But then Damianos asked, “What is your name?”

He spoke Veretian. Of course he did. He had demonstrated that skill on many occasions in the past, as a guest in the palace of Arles, back when their countries were still on diplomatic terms. Before the battle of Marlas and the Akielons’ inexplicable victory. He had conversed in that language with Auguste, the two of them laughing, sharing an instant and easy bond almost from the moment they dropped the formalities and really got to know one another. Two proud young men, kings in the making, too noble and straight-minded for the intrigues of their respective courts. And the third one, a child trailing behind his older brother and this strange foreign prince, listening in to their conversations, and hoping desperately to be allowed to join in.

And now Damianos was asking him for his _name_.

This was _outrageous._ He was just about ready to forgo all caution and demand that Damianos acknowledge the summers they spent together – that time he lost his way in the Arles palace and had to be shown to his room – that time he publically declared that Auguste’s little brother was a splendid rider – every time he had met _Laurent_.

And now he couldn’t even recall his _name_.

“You have been asked a question, slave,” Nikandros said.

Slave. So that was what Laurent was now.

Perhaps it was better that way. Slaves were unimportant. Foreign princes could be exploited for their knowledge, or held as leverage over Auguste’s head. And besides, he could give them no proof to support his claim for his own identity.

“Your Majesty can call me whatever he wants,” Laurent said, not quite able to keep the contemptuous tone out of his voice. This was not the proper way for a slave to address the Crown Prince – he could tell that much from the displeasure apparent in Nikandros’s face, and the horror on the handler’s.

“He has not been trained,” Nikandros said in Akielon.

“Yes, that is evident,” Damianos said, curious rather than disappointed.

He hadn’t changed much since they last time they had seen each other; four years ago, before the battle of Marlas. His face was exactly the same: strong wide jaw, full lips, deep dark eyes, bronze skin, face framed by curly black hair. He looked nothing like Auguste, and yet this was what Laurent immediately thought of, confronted with his commanding presence. The way all these scary, dangerous men deferred to him so willingly.

But this was Akielos, and the Akielon way of things. Power, and submission.

It would be a mistake to speak unless the Crown Prince asked him a direct question, so Laurent remained silent. But he refused to avert his gaze. Let them beat him for it, if they will. He was not going to submit this easily, and certainly not to a man who could not even be bothered to remember his _name_.

“Do you speak Akielon?” Damianos asked, switching to his native tongue. Laurent looked at him in blank confusion. If they thought he could not understand them at all, he might be able to glean something important from their conversations.

(The first words they had ever exchanged were in Veretian: Damianos expressing a formal, meaningless greeting, his bright smile softening his words. Laurent, a young child in awe of their strange guests, had been too shy to offer the expected answer. Instead he had retreated behind Auguste and hoped not to be noticed again.)

The next words were soft, quieter, spoken in Veretian: “Did Makedon’s men mistreat you?”

Laurent kept his palms flat on the smooth stone floor. He held Damianos’s gaze, and bore both his concern and the implication behind the question.

The handler said something, the word “damaged” piercing through the thick fog in Laurent’s head. He kept himself still.

They had examined him, oh yes. They would not knowingly offer damaged goods to their Prince. But Laurent had had the time to heal.

“No, Your Majesty,” he answered, once he could trust his voice again.

“I’m glad,” Damianos said. He was sincere, but the possible reasons for his concern were numerous, and so Laurent resolved to think nothing of it. Then he added, “I’ll have you serve me tonight, at the feast.”

“Exalted,” Nikandros said, repeating his earlier remark in a marginally reproachful tone of voice. “He has _not_ been trained.”

“I’m sure he will perform well enough,” Damianos said.

 _Perform_. The word made Laurent bristle.

Damianos offered no parting words to Laurent, showing him nothing but the broad expanse of his back. A curiosity, yes, but Laurent was still just a slave to him. Not worthy of a backward glance.

***

It took most of the morning to teach Laurent how to prostrate himself on the ground in a submissive position. Now they had not much longer to teach him how to serve at a feast.

The handler did his best. Laurent did his best. Neither of them had much success.

He could feel, at all times, the unobtrusive but appraising gaze of the other slaves. To them, he was rejecting the highest of honours. These poor young men and women, bred in captivity for their servility and looks, knew nothing but the praise of their masters. Laurent, were he to avoid exposing himself, would need to learn to think like them.

But he did not want to.

He gritted his teeth and went to his knees when asked, unable to relax his posture because his hands trembled with rage. The handler – Kolnas, he was called. The Keeper of the Slaves. Already, Laurent was learning so much about Akielos and its delightful customs.

The slave quarters were busy in preparations for the feast, and grew even more so with each passing hour. Outside, the evening was fading, the coolness of it a blissful reprieve from the oppressive heat of the day. Laurent was just about to relax, when Kolnas and two guards told him to follow.

Apprehension built up within him. They left the inner part of the fort, passed through servant passages, and moved briefly across the open courtyard. Laurent observed the activity around them – soldiers, everywhere, in full armour and worryingly numerous. But he could not see too much, as the guards shielded the view from him – or him from view.

Their journey led to the blacksmith, the heat of the forge like a slap to the face. Laurent, unknowingly, staggered.

He knew what was about to happen. It ought to have surprised him more that it was only happening now.

There were three thick bands of gold already prepared for him. They lay on the worktable, a rich sheen to their smooth surface. Two wrist cuffs, and a collar: a mark of ownership.

He set his teeth, face impassive, mind retreating behind layers of conflicting emotions and contingency plans. Kolnas nodded appreciatively, mistaking Laurent’s blank stare for a sign of submission. In reality, the impractical and heavy metal could yet prove an asset to him, buying him passage back to Arles. Maybe with a stop along the way, at Acquitart, where he would put the gold to proper use and bash someone’s head with it. As long as he could figure out who was responsible for his current predicament – or, more accurately, who was acting on his uncle’s behalf.

It was an infinitely more pleasant thought than the new, queasy sensation of heavy weight around his wrists and neck, proclaiming him Damianos’s property.

“Take him to the Kyros,” Kolnas ordered, apparently satisfied with the blacksmith’s work.

Ah.

Nikandros barely acknowledged their entrance, bent over the desk shoulder-to-shoulder with his bannermen. Their voices were too difficult to follow, operating with military and strategic terms Laurent’s meagre supply of Akielon vocabulary did not cover. That, even more so than the gold, left him anxious.

“You will serve Prince Damianos at the feast,” Nikandros said, in harsh Veretian. He had no accent typical of the men living near the border, which probably put him among King Theomedes’s most loyal commanders, if he had been sent here to rule over the war-torn province. Most loyal, and hopefully most competent, too.

“It will be an honour,” Laurent lied.

Nikandros narrowed his eyes at him in clear suspicion. “And, if the Prince wills it, you will also attend him in the bedchamber.”

Laurent’s world spun, dangerously. It must have shown on his face, because Nikandros’s voice softened a little.

“He is an honourable man,” he said. “And he will treat you kindly.”

It baffled him that Nikandros would say that. Why bother reassuring a slave?

He realized then that his youth and the manner in which he arrived here made him look pathetic and helpless in the eyes of the proud Akielon warriors. He had been drugged,  kidnapped by the clansmen, roughened up a little, and then rescued by Makedon’s men, after they slaughtered the bandits and burned down their camp.

Such skirmishes were common near the border. Up until now he had only read about them in reports, not experienced one first-hand, bound and gagged and crawling towards the river before someone took notice of his bright yellow hair.

“I wish for nothing but to please the Prince,” Laurent said, which wasn’t true. The next statement however was, worryingly so: “I know I owe much to him.”

“Your looks alone please him greatly,” Nikandros sighed, in the long-suffering tone of an old friend.

Interesting. He had heard before that Damianos’s taste leaned towards pale skin and bright hair – had, on one mortifying occasion, asked Auguste about that. Auguste laughed and laughed, ruffling Laurent’s own hair, and then casting him knowing glances all through that evening’s feast. Laurent still blushed at the memory of it.

So Damianos found him attractive?

He found himself examining the new information carefully, from every angle. It made no sense. Damianos had never paid him any attention. But that opinion was apparently shared by Kolnas, who had ordered him dressed in the Akielon fashion.

The garment, when laid down, was a single sheet of fabric. However, even Laurent had to pause. It was such rich, vivid blue, incidentally matching his eye colour. The dye alone had to cost a small fortune. Quality of the fabric was another surprise: smooth and cool, draping attractively when the attending slaves raised it to wrap it around him.

He had to be naked for this. Of course he had to be. He stood before them perfectly still and weathered their practiced, impersonal touch.

They swathed him in the blue fabric, pinning it over his shoulders and around his waist. Even so, he felt exposed, with his bare arms and cleavage deep enough to show the collar. Then, more insultingly, they dabbed paint on his face.

Had he walked like this into the Palace back home, no one would recognize him. They would take him for a pet, would _see_ him as one. Uncle, who already viewed Laurent so, would be pleased beyond belief.

It was becoming too much. He needed space, time alone to think; to clear the fog clouding his mind. Times like this, he always felt detached from his physical body, and so was hardly bothered when Kolnas looked him over like a piece of merchandise.

“He is ready,” Kolnas said.

Laurent would beg to differ, but he was reasonably certain no one cared for his opinion anyway.

***

Stripped of his armour, Damianos should have looked more approachable. He didn’t. He had worn a single sheet of fabric, wrapped around his body and held together with the gold lion pin. Yet, as he entered, the entire hall prostrated themselves on the floor. This close to the border, discipline was everything: Laurent felt it in the air. Simpler, in many ways, then the customs of his own court, which seemed designed to throw strangers off balance.

In here, he knew his position exactly: at Damianos’s feet. A captured slave. A rarity, because of his colouring, drawing more than one eye. But no one would dare touch him while he was marked as the Prince’s property.

“Exalted,” he said.

Better to please his captor. Conformity would buy him time.

He watched Damianos settle into the low seat. He fetched him wine. He fetched him food. He thought of murder.

The feast proceeded without a hitch. Wine and food was plenty, and Damianos received his guests from his elegant half-sprawl on the settee, his long and muscular limbs on full display. He held his head proudly, the golden laurel wreath the mark of his status.

Witch each cup of wine, however, his attention slipped. More specifically, he spent more and more time watching Laurent.

“You are not very good at this,” he said quietly in Veretian. Yet he was smiling, rather helplessly so, when Laurent almost spilled the jug of wine he was supposed to hold still in his outstretched hands.

“Forgive me, Exalted,” Laurent said. “We do not keep slaves in Vere. I do not know how to behave like one.”

“It’s a straightforward arrangement,” Damianos said. “It would likely confuse a Veretian.”

Laurent tipped the jug of wine into the shallow cup and asked, “With your permission, I would love to learn. I believe it begins when one man is deemed inferior and stripped off his will…?”

Damianos accepted the cup handed to him. Their fingers brushed.

“It begins with one man offering his service, in exchange for his master’s protection,” he said. “It continues as both of them keep to their word. But that’s when I lose you, is it not?”

He took a sip of wine. His eyes, insistent, remained on Laurent, who regarded him coolly in turn.

“This arrangement works as long as it’s not the master the slaves need to be protected from,” Laurent said.

“We do not raise our hand against the weak or helpless. It is dishonourable.”

“How fortunate that Delfeur wasn’t helpless, then,” Laurent said. “Else I would be forced to question the honourability of men who invade peaceful lands. And that would be a grave insult to you, Exalted.”

“Delpha belongs to Akielos,” Damianos said. “It did in the past, and it does again!”

He said it in Akielon, addressing the entire hall. His voice, used to commanding large groups of men, carried across the room, and was subsequently drowned in cheers.

Laurent was conscious that Damianos was looking at him, sharply and through narrowed eyes. He kept his face impassive, his hands on the floor. Lifetime in Arles taught him a few tricks, and then his uncle taught him a few more.

This entire exchange had been a misstep on his part. Damianos did not seem inclined to punish him for it – yet – but he was not playing this right. He knew he was not. And it was crucial that he would. For Auguste’s safety, he needed to get back to Arles. He could not do so with his head on a spike.

However. A thought persisted, and not an entirely unpleasant one. In a hall full of Akielon men and women, Damianos was still looking only at him.

“Damen,” Nikandros said. As the Kyros, he had the seat closest to the Crown Prince. And, apparently, was welcome to call him by the diminutive name. Some form of wordless communication was passing between the two men. Nikandros looked not exactly displeased, but exasperated; Damianos shot him an amused look.

“This is the part where I give you a warning,” Nikandros said. “And you do not listen.”

 _Don’t fuck the Veretian prisoner,_ was probably the warning. Nikandros didn’t seem the type to mince words. But Damianos, as it turned out, wasn’t the type to listen.

***

He followed, as was proper, a few steps behind the Prince.

His shoulder still burned with the ghost of Damianos’s touch. Just like that, the slight pressure of fingers, and he was expected to rise to his feet and obey. Damianos did not even look back to check if he was there.

They were alone. He had a weapon, in a manner of speaking. Unfortunately, he also had no delusions about his own fighting ability when confronted with the man before him.

The royal chambers had been decorated with as much restraint as the rest of the fort. Guards snapped to attention as they passed, and Laurent felt their curious, assessing gaze on himself. He remembered some of Makedon’s men, their leering faces etched in his memory: _We were the ones who found you. Once the Prince is done, you will be ours._

There were other slaves already in the room. And there was Damianos, his presence shoving all else in the background.

“You are a reckless fool,” he said.

He stepped forward. Laurent, belatedly, made to go to his knees, but his legs were stiff. Many, many plans of escape flitted through his mind, each one more impossible than the rest.

The reality was this: he was completely in Damianos’s power. Whatever happened to him, he would have to endure.

“Exalted,” he said.

The strong lines of Damianos’s face softened. He lifted his hand and curled the very tips of his fingers around Laurent’s jaw. His touch, feather-soft, still sent a wave of sensation down Laurent’s body.

He had dreamt of this, embarrassingly so. But his dreams did not include a slave’s collar or the threat of an oncoming war.

“You are trembling,” Damianos said gently. “I thought nothing rattled you.”

Laurent fought down conflicting sensations. He had only ever observed Damianos from afar. Now here he was, craning his neck up to look into those dark eyes, close enough to reach out and seek the warmth of his skin. But the circumstances of his presence here and the very memory of someone’s hands on him made him choke with revulsion.

“You cannot fault me for being worried,” Laurent said.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the steady touch of Damianos’s hand was comforting.

“I will not hurt you,” Damianos said.

“Then free me,” Laurent said.

It did not sound like a request; he never intended it as one. The furrow between Damianos’s brows spoke of concern, discomfort even.

“I cannot do that,” he said, again in the gentle tone of voice, as if he was trying to calm down a skittish horse. “You would never make it to the border.”

“Is it the hair?” Laurent asked.

The corners of Damianos’s mouth twitched. Amusement transformed his whole face. Perhaps unthinkingly, he shifted the position of his hand, thumb gliding in a slow caress across Laurent’s cheek. It was—not unpleasant.

“Leave us,” Damianos said, never once taking his eyes off Laurent. His order was obeyed instantly, the slaves bowing deep and disappearing behind the door.

“How did you imagine it, then?” Damianos asked. “That I would flip you over the bed and mount like the beast you think I am?”

He said it quietly, the low rumble of his voice making Laurent shiver; the picture instantly painting itself in his mind. Damianos was so large, he could overpower him completely; would indeed have no trouble holding Laurent down, forcing him into whatever position suited him best. Taking him, then, without doubt or hesitation, Laurent’s body yet another thing for him to conquer. And Laurent would—well, he might—he might welcome it, even, in the mindless way one welcomes the strain of exercise or the excess of wine. He thought of Damen, inside him, around him, obliterating all else; and of himself, giving in willingly, to be used. He thought—

It had to show on his face; the heat in his cheek, the slight hitch of breath. Damianos’s pupils widened, in surprise or desire or both. His hand moulded itself more firmly to the line of Laurent’s jaw.

“And how did you imagine it?” Laurent asked. “Did you expect me to swoon into your arms? To kiss your foot, and to spread my legs for you?”

Damianos was breathing harshly now, the exhale of air warm and moist on Laurent’s lips.

“Would that please you?” he asked. “To give yourself to me?”

Laurent said nothing, overcome with the desire to bury his face in his hands and never ever talk to this man again.

“We are not here for my pleasure,” Laurent said.

“We could be.”

It was harder to think. His heart beat unsteadily in his chest.

There were reasons, many reasons why he should feel angry and humiliated. Mostly, however, he was experiencing a sense of bewilderment, and a few years’ worth of longing catching up with him. And Damen, mostly Damen, offering him—what?

He felt the kiss, the shape of Damen’s mouth against his own. The warm, soft press of lips. Not insistent, but waiting for him to react.

It was this, or the thousand reasons why he shouldn’t; but “this” was kissing Damen _back_ , and the hands cradling his face, and the rabbit-fast beat of his own heart. And it was exhilarating to feel Damen respond to his kiss. So much so that he had to climb up onto his toes to search for a better angle, resting his hands on muscular chest and shoulder.

He felt, with every second, the warmth curling in his stomach, his body responding in the usual way to the assault on his senses. Even though he had never known the sensations to be this intense.

Breathless, he broke the kiss, Damen’s hands and lips lingering as if he, too, did not want them to part. Laurent, no doubt red in the face and dishevelled, kept his gaze lowered, focusing on his own hand flat on Damen’s chest: pale and fragile in contrast to the smooth, dark skin. He had the looks and manners of an indoor courtier, he knew that. Not a soldier, or a commander, or a leader.

He was aware that Damen was staring at him; that he wanted more; and that Laurent, pride be damned, was ready to give him everything he asked for.

Except—

He moved. There was no conceivable reason for them to do it standing, and the bed was right there.

Damen huffed a laugh.

“You are very demanding,” he said.

“It’s the least of my flaws,” Laurent said.

Willingly enough, Damen let himself be pushed down onto the bed, his hands in a loose grip on Laurent’s hips. Let himself be straddled, even, expression slightly dazed. Every slight tightening of his hands made Laurent’s blood rush in unorthodox directions.

“You also talk too much,” Damen said.

“Yes,” Laurent said. And, because he supposed Damen might expect it, he added: “While we’re on the subject: I’m not going to suck your cock.”

Except _that_. The thought alone made him gag. But at the very least he should be grateful they had made it this far. And it would be useful to know Damen’s reaction to this information. Whether it would be rage, or disappointment, or—

“All right.”

\--or that.

Laurent blinked down at him.

“Really?”

“So long as you let me suck yours,” Damen said, in a low voice that bypassed all of Laurent’s thoughts and objections. He had no time even to appreciate the sight of Damen sprawled beneath him, the bronze gleam of his skin, the texture of his muscles; and, most of all, his smile, and the look in his eyes. He felt his hands again, running up his flank, wrapping easily around his waist. Pulling him down, closer to Damen’s mouth, so that they could kiss again.

He had no objections at all when Damen flipped them over; when he felt the full weight of his body pressing him deeper into the soft mattress. He should have. But then Damen was kissing his neck, and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of Laurent’s ridiculous Akielon garments. And he thought that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad if Damen were to make good on his promise.

The lion pin caught the candlelight, and shone with it. Laurent unpinned it easily, used to unfastening more intricate articles of jewellery and clothing. He managed, with Damen’s help, to wrestle the fabric away from his body, exposing more of it.

More. And then some.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Laurent shook his head. “I should have expected—I mean—“ Damen was levelling him with a puzzled gaze. “Relatively to the rest of you, I mean, it was to be expected.”

Damen blinked, and laughed. Laurent could swear he could see embarrassment darken his cheeks.

“Are you always this—“ Damen began.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Damen looked at him fondly. He brushed Laurent’s neck, and the bruise forming there, right above the slave’s collar. He traced the shape of Laurent’s collarbones beneath the blue fabric, which regretfully robbed Laurent of the warmth of Damen’s skin.

“May I?” Damen asked, smiling. “It is only fair.”

Laurent nodded. However, when Damen was disrobing him, he felt his limbs go limp and his eyes drifting shut. It was easier when he did not think about what was happening. What used to happen. What was _not_ happening now, he reminded himself forcibly.

Slowly, gently, Damen caressed his skin, his hot mouth tracing a path from the dip between Laurent’s collarbones, down his sternum and abdomen, and then sucking a kiss over Laurent’s hipbone. At that, Laurent hitched a breath in surprise, and gripped the sheets tightly. He had to keep himself from reaching out; he had to keep all those warm, unsteady feelings from ripping him apart.

He was hard already, and even more so when Damen’s breath passed over his cock. The heat of his mouth was unbearable, and it was just the promise of it: a brief kiss to the tip of Laurent’s cock. His tongue, warm and wet, wrapping around the head of it. And then running down the shaft, in an easy, practiced motion.

Then, when Laurent felt he could take no more, Damen took him into his mouth.

He gasped. His hips buckled, despite his best efforts to keep himself still. A tiny motion, but unmistakable in its intent to drive deeper into the tight heat.

And Damen obliged. He licked and sucked, as if it wasn’t unnatural for a prince to service a slave like that. As if he truly thought of them as equals, or did not recognize the act as demeaning.

Laurent’s mind could not wrap around the thought. And then he could not think at all, every swipe of Damen’s tongue taking him closer. He would not last long—it felt so _good_ , no wonder uncle liked it—

“Stop,” he gasped. Then, when Damen looked at him in confusion, his mouth reddened and glistening with spit, Laurent said: “Fuck me. Please.”

He could not find the words, it just… didn’t feel right. He wanted something they could both enjoy.

But Damen, thankfully, needed no further encouragement. His fingers already travelled further down, teasing the sensitive skin of Laurent’s inner thighs. He was also thoughtful enough to grab a bottle of oil.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, eyes wide with intent and skilful fingers already pressing to the tight muscle.

“Yes,” Laurent said. “Not much of a First Night, I’m afraid.”

It gave Damen a pause. Laurent, impatient, climbed into his lap and straddled the width of his muscular thighs. He felt oil dribble down his legs, and then Damen’s finger scooping it up; pressing into him.

He had to bury his face in Damen’s neck to stifle a gasp. Thick curly hair tickled his face, and a strong arm wrapped itself around his back, steadying him.

“Relax,” Damen murmured. Laurent’s body obeyed him eventually, enough for him to work his finger inside.

One, and another; he wasted no time. Laurent was stupidly grateful for that. It felt odd at first, until the oddness gave way to pleasure; then a desire for more. He had to spare a thought to consider the size of Damen’s cock, but then decided that he wouldn’t know how it would fit until they tried.

Damen withdrew his fingers. His cock was trapped between their bodies, hot and silky smooth to the touch. And Laurent wanted—

He shifted his hips, minutely, already feeling the strain in his muscles. And then there was the press at his hole, and the head of Damen’s cock, thick and spongy; and Damen looked at him with wide eyes, disbelieving and joyful. Laurent wanted to kiss the smile on his mouth.

It burned, but he found himself taking pleasure in the slow burn. He had to take it slowly, Damen reminded him, or it would be too much. But every inch made him crave more, Damen filling him so completely it left him breathless.

“Damen,” he said, before he could stop himself; he wrapped his arms tight around Damen’s shoulders and felt him move, shifting the place where their bodies joined together. Fucking him properly now. “ _Damen_ —“

They moved, and it was too much and not enough. And then he was coming, too soon, spilling onto the skin of Damen’s abdomen. But he still felt it, he felt everything, Damen’s shallow thrusts and half-broken Akielon words, whispered into the skin of Laurent’s neck.

His mind was a little clearer now. He could fully appreciate the texture of Damen’s hair once he carded his fingers through it, and the strong line of his jaw. His skin, slick with sweat, and the scent of his body. And then the twitch of his cock, buried deep inside Laurent; his grip on Laurent’s back, tightening; and the spill of his seed, hot and heavy.

***

They took a moment to catch their breaths. Then there was the careful, awkward matter of disentangling themselves. Laurent immediately missed the heat of Damen’s body, and maybe even the bizarre sensation of a softening cock slipping out of him. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts and remember where he ended and Damen began.

Damen fell back into the sheets, his large chest heaving with exertion as if he had just fought a duel. But he smiled a great deal more, his expression rather dazed.

Laurent rose. There was a bath off to the side, he was sure of it. Damen’s seed on his inner thighs was not—entirely unpleasant. Yet. But he’d rather wash it off.

Full cauldron of water was still near the fire place, hot until the Prince might have use for it. Laurent used cold water instead, first splashing his face with it. It sobered him up, hopefully enough to consider his next move with care.

Even if Damen fell asleep now – and if sex didn’t make him sleepy, wine would have had – sneaking out of the royal chambers would be impossible. He had to be dismissed, or wait until morning.

He grabbed a towel and a pitcher of drinking water, and then paused. He bit his lip and took them anyway.

Damen was watching him with his head propped up on one hand, unselfconsciously naked. Laurent felt his cheeks tingle as his eyes gravitated to Damen’s soft cock, nested in black curls and lying casually against muscular thigh.

Damen raised his eyebrow and grinned.

“You need to give me a few moments,” he said.

“You are awfully sure of yourself,” Laurent said, putting down the water and handing him the towel. He was still blushing and his voice came out softer than he intended. “Exalted.”

The sheet of blue fabric was discarded on the floor. He picked it up and wrapped it around himself, cursing Akielon fashion for lack of laces he could fasten to keep it from slipping off.

“’Exalted’,” Damen repeated. “Not so long ago you were calling me ‘Damen’.”

Laurent paused.

Damen— _Damianos_ was still staring at him, an entirely different expression on his face.

“Forgive me,” Laurent said stiffly.

“No,” Damianos said. “I liked it.”

Laurent wasn’t sure what to do with this new information. He sat on the bed, hands folded in his lap, while Damianos towelled himself off and dressed. Then he drank straight out of the pitcher, rivulets of water running down his chin and neck; Laurent averted his gaze, heat already pooling in his stomach.

“What happens now, Exalted?” he asked.

Damianos had his back to him, muscular and bronze; his hair curled rather invitingly at the nape of his neck, and the white chiton really did a poor job of covering his body.

“Now,” Damianos said, in a different voice. “I suppose you should tell me why you are here.”

He turned and looked Laurent straight in the eyes as he added: “Your Highness.”

Startled, Laurent felt his body stiffen and his mind go momentarily blank. He had to do quite a bit of rearranging to fit that information into the frame of his thoughts.

“You knew me,” he said.

“I _know_ you,” Damianos said. “Or do you not remember?”

Laurent remembered a half-grown child hiding in the shadows and watching from a distance. He had not expected to be noticed, much less remembered.

“But you did not know at once,” he said, to prick at that particular hurt.

“No. You’ve changed,” Damianos bit his lip. “You’ve changed a great deal.”

“Then why go along with the charade?” Laurent asked, because the husky note in Damianos’s voice was coming dangerously close to making him blush.

“People talk,” Damianos said. “What do you think would happen if news got out that we have the Prince of Vere in chains?”

“War,” Laurent said simply. “Why are you here, Damianos?”

Damianos began circling the room. He fought with himself, apparently questioning the wisdom of sharing too much with an enemy. But honesty won out, and he said: “The situation at the border is volatile. My father ordered me here to ensure it doesn’t get out of hand.”

“Because then you’d have to fight a war you cannot afford,” Laurent said. Damen’s grim expression confirmed his suspicions. “So there’s trouble in Ios. And my uncle had just been there. Curious, isn’t it?”

“Your uncle the Ambassador?”

Laurent tightened his folded hands and nodded.

“I’ve been to Acquitart,” he said. Had, in fact, ran away and hid there as soon as he learned that uncle was coming back to Arles. Cowardice cost him his freedom. “There I was ambushed, I think. They drugged me and smuggled me across the border.”

“For what purpose?” Damianos frowned at him. “That sounds like something a Veretian would do—“ he stopped, looking sheepish.

Laurent laughed humourlessly. “It does. And it was.”

He watched Damianos circle the room. There was a detailed map of Delfeur on his desk, which he examined with a deepening frown.

“I have met the Ambassador of Vere,” he said. “He always seemed like a reasonable man.”

“I’m not asking you to believe me,” Laurent said. “This is hardly any of your business. But my uncle is cunning, and he wants my brother’s crown. You should bear that in mind when you deal with him.”

Bitterness flooded his tongue. Damianos was not likely to trust the warning of a young prince, not yet fully a man, against a seasoned diplomat. But if uncle truly meddled – if he wanted the war – Damianos was crucial in stopping it.

So was Auguste, who was even less likely to believe him. Family was everything to him, and Laurent dreaded the idea of making him choose.

Auguste. Back in Arles. Heedless of the danger awaiting him—

“I need to go back,” he said quietly.

“I will see to it,” Damianos said. He took a seat next to Laurent, the mattress dipping to take his weight. They weren’t close enough to touch, but Laurent drew a measure of comfort from his proximity.

“Then will you free me?” he asked, seeking out warm dark eyes.

Damianos hesitated.

“I cannot do that,” he said gently. His fingers covered Laurent’s trembling hands, and then he touched the smooth gold cuffs. “You are not safe here, Laurent. These will protect you. No Akielon will touch you as long as they consider you mine.”

His name sounded strange in Damen’s mouth, pronounced with a different accent. Strange, but good; he wanted to hear it again, every rise and fall of Damen’s voice. And he wanted to shake some sense into the man, with his blind faith in his own people—

“You like it,” he said, surrendering his hands fully to Damen’s sure grip. “You think I’m yours?”

“I wouldn’t dare to presume that,” Damen said gently.

The air between them grew thick. Laurent didn’t quite know where to look.

\--Politics. They were supposed to be talking politics.

“You made me serve you,” he said, already knowing what Damen would say.

“I had to keep an eye on you.”

“How close an eye?”

Damen’s thumb brushed his knuckles, raising goose bumps all the way up Laurent’s forearms.

“It is possible,” Damen said carefully, “That I got carried away.”

“You thought I was a spy, didn’t you,” Laurent said, throat dry. _Carried away_ , indeed. He was already having trouble walking.

“Well, I had to see what you were capable of,” Damen said.

“What if I stabbed you in your sleep?” Laurent asked.

“Then you’d be executed. And who would save Auguste from your uncle’s ploys?” Damen pressed a chaste kiss to Laurent’s forehead and gripped his hand tightly. “I’ll see you safely to the border, Laurent.”

It would be lovely to bask in his gentle attention, but Laurent wasn’t so far gone as to accept it without question.

“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked.

Damen—Damianos; he kept forgetting—looked at him with a serious expression.

“Because if anything happens to you, Auguste _will_ go to war,” Damianos said. “And because I like him. We were friends, once.”

Laurent waited with bated breath.

“I like you, too,” Damen said softly.

He was red to the tip of his ears, he just knew it. But he could still be reasonable about it. Someone had to be.

“You cannot just march me into Fortaine in cuffs and collar,” he said. Damen was looking at him, and had yet to let go of his hand. “For one thing, Guion is on my uncle’s payroll. It would be best if you could arrange a direct meeting with Auguste, both to deliver me and to secure the peace.”

“The King of Vere will not ride south without a good reason,” Damen said.

“He will,” Laurent said. “I have a plan…”


End file.
